


Not So Black

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:50:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fic "The Devil's Due" was written before "The Devil's Share" episode aired and was based on promos and speculation. After re-watching the episode, I thought I should write something that was more fully based on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Black

_the devil is not so black as he is painted…_

 

Bear whined. The sound woke Harold from his light dose. He sat forward, feeling tension and tightness in his neck, realizing that sitting here for so many hours wasn’t doing it any good though there was nothing to be done for it. He glanced at the monitors, then over at John’s pale face against the pillows.

His eyes were open. Bear’s tail thumped against the floor but he seemed to understand that his friend was too weak for a greeting. 

“Yes, Bear,” Harold said softly. “I see John’s awake.” He rubbed the dog’s head behind his ears and met John’s pain-filled eyes. 

“Wh-why?” The voice that came from the man in the bed was weakened, rougher than usual. And so tired. Harold almost cringed at the lifeless sound.

He pressed his lips together, remembering his vow to never lie to this man. 

“Because I couldn’t lose you.” 

John’s face, often so impassive, crumpled as if the words pained him. “I…shouldn’t… be alive,” he croaked.

Bear whined again and leaned hard against Harold’s leg. _I can feel John’s pain, too._ Harold wanted to say to him. Instead he pushed his chair closer to the head of the bed.

“John.” He waited until the tortured eyes returned to look at him. “Neither of us should be alive, if I recall,” he said, his voice light with the oft-repeated sentiment. Before John could protest, he added, “but we have had a loss. I felt… I couldn’t lose you as well.”

“Are you sure you haven’t already?” John murmured.

“The doctor told Ms. Shaw that you will recover, John.”

John turned away again. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” He could feel John pulling away, knew he was questioning everything they’d done. It was natural, normal. And there wasn’t much he could do about it. Harold wasn’t the kind of man to plead, to say openly how he felt. 

He looked down, seeing John’s hand clenched in the covers. Despite his efforts to wash it away when he and Shaw had been caring for John, Harold could see some blood still lingered at the tips of his fingers and around his nails. There had been so much blood… more than Harold had ever seen on John before. When John had gotten out of bed to stalk the city for Simmons, his exertions had caused the gunshot wounds to bleed profusely. He’d been drenched in it when Harold had found him quietly telling Quinn how he would end his life. When he’d told John he was dying, it hadn’t been a lie. Still, when he’d collapsed, Harold had been surprised. A part of him had thought nothing could bring the determined man down. When he saw John bring up his gun and try to shoot Quinn, the amount of blood on the gun, dripping from his hand, was appalling. John had looked defeated when he couldn’t fire, couldn’t end Quinn’s life. And Harold had known his own words about what Carter would have wanted really didn’t penetrate through John’s grief and pain. 

Later, back at the safehouse and its makeshift hospital room, he had waited for the doctor Shaw was bringing. Fusco had helped him get John out of his ruined clothes, stripping off the heavy coat, the bloody suit and white shirt that stuck to the wounds where the blood had dried. 

Even to Harold’s untrained eyes, the change in the wounds looked frightening – torn stitches, holes more jagged, deep bruising… John had looked like he shouldn’t be alive. While Fusco got rid of the blood-soaked pile of clothing, Harold had brought a pan of warm water and numerous wash cloths over to the bed where John lay unconscious. He slipped off his own jacket and rolled up his sleeves, taking up the task as he tried not to think, not to feel as he surveyed the horror that was John’s body. Starting with his fine boned hands, Harold carefully washed and wiped at the blood, the cloths turning red, the water becoming useless quickly. He’d had to change it out over and over again, but he persevered, cleaning John’s arms, his shoulder around the upper bullet wound, and down over his chest, trying to avoid the wound there. Occasionally, John flinched under Harold’s hands, or a pained whimper was wrung from his lips – Harold would pause in his task, laying a hand over John’s forehead, stroking his hair, and trying to soothe him verbally though he doubted John could hear him. When John had quieted, Harold went on working, willing his hands to even greater gentleness, patting at John’s belly and down his thighs, amazed the blood had traveled down past his belt as well. By the time the doctor arrived, he had done all he could and merely stood out of the way as Shaw aided Dr. Tillman while they assessed the damage. A long time later, Harold realized he was shaking, fine tremors shuddering through his body despite his attempts to control his emotions. When he went to the bathroom to splash water on his face, he noted that his cheeks were streaked with dried tears.

Then again, how many times had he kept his feelings to himself only to find that had been the wrong thing to do?

He reached out, his own cool, diffident fingers clasping John’s warm trembling ones. 

“I care about you, John,” he said, his voice made soft with emotion. “I think you know that.” When John didn’t answer, he went on, “I know you’re upset now. I know you’re in pain and it’s hard to think rationally when you’re hurting this way. Please… just don’t make any decisions until you’re better physically.”

John turned his face back toward Harold at last. “I… don’t know… “

Harold squeezed the hand he was holding. “I know. It’s all right. Take your time.” He realized he’d stopped John from stating precisely what it was that he ‘didn’t know’ but a part of Harold just couldn’t let it be put into words. John didn’t know whether he wanted to continue to work with him. John didn’t know if he could care about him, not now. It didn’t need to be said aloud. It hurt Harold just as much. 

He glanced down, feeling guilt as he hadn’t in years. He had found this man when he’d been at his lowest point. Given him a purpose, made him want to live again, helped him to find others to care about… and had contributed to the pain he was suffering now. John had cared about Carter and had lost her. Harold felt her loss keenly too, and his own guilt in not being able to prevent her death would always be with him.

“Harold…”

The croaking voice made Harold look up, meeting John’s eyes. 

“I… just want you to know… I do care…” The pain in John’s voice, in his eyes, seemed to peak and his voice failed him, but his hand clenched tight around Harold’s, steady now.

Harold’s heart quivered at the faint words. To others, John had been a madman on the loose, indiscriminately causing pain and death in his quest to avenge Detective Carter. Harold had heard the words he’d said to Quinn at the hotel, how he’d killed many people and that it didn’t really bother him. How he’d claimed he would not make Quinn’s death as painless as was his usual practice. Harold saw him differently. Despite the carnage he’d left in his wake, he was capable of so much caring, so much love… and was at heart so much more gentle than anyone Harold had ever known in his life. John wasn’t a devil – that role belonged to Simmons. 

Harold leaned close, bending over their joined hands, and his lips touched John’s scarred knuckles reverently.


End file.
